Bearclaw Valley What good to be a god myself, unless things can touch your heart?

how easily she could take his skull between her jaws and fling him --

an image then of nyra, teeth closed around the ruff of her son.

astara pulled back ruefully, her teeth snapping shut. it was not karst's screams (which now flooded the glade as quickly as blood flooded his ear) that stayed astara -- it was the vision of merrick losing a son.

astara's expression contorted into one of loathing. he should have done anything besides wail -- fight back, flee -- but instead, he remained like a screaming stone, insipid and unmovable.

she found no use in staying. if he would not be roused into usefulness, astara would not waste her time further. with no remorse in her heart to cause a babe such distress, astara turned on her slinking heels and began to make for less noisy climes.